Story - Yellow Coat

 I will never forget her face.

It had been a good, productive, morning.  I'd woken around six thirty, coffee and toast and straight to my desk.  Near enough the whole of chapter eight flowed out on to the screen in the hours to midday.  When I returned I'd go back to it and do some editing, sort out the closing paragraphs where there was a still a decision to be made, and that would be a decent day's work done.  I had a microwaved potato with some beans and cheese, and set off to walk along the front to the old abbey.

Writing, for me, is a matter of habit, of settling into a comfy routine.  I'd moved into the cottage three weeks ago and quickly established the pattern of my days.  Sleep, write, eat, walk, read, eat, write, read, sleep.  Simple, predictable, soothing, with the bagginess I needed for thinking time, contemplation.  I'd brought about a month's worth of supplies with me so I didn't even need to head into the village.  My walk took me in the opposite direction, heading west along the coast.  

I found that walk on the second day and had stuck with the same route ever since.  It exercised my body, stimulated my senses, raised questions in my mind.  And kept me away from others.  Down the hill from the cottage, a mile along the dune-shaped coastal pathway, then the climb up to the cliff and along to the fourteenth century ruin that marked my turning point.  The way back invariably into the wind and spray, and frequent rain squalls, coming in off the North Sea, ensuring I returned glowing, tingling, breathless, ready.  Every day the light was different, rolling shadows of cloud across the battered land and bruised waters, sending down shafts to highlight different details of my journey - a stunted tree, a rock the size and shape of a JCB, and, most memorably, a seal observing my progress from the whitecaps.  The abbey would be bright and welcoming, or dark and apprehensive, or shady and mysterious in the haar.  Best of all I saw nobody.  Except my silkie.

Until that day.  I was on my way back, in the sandy undulations before my final climb, so I didn't see her until we were about a hundred metres apart.  Then I couldn't miss her.  A mustard yellow waterproof, hood up, above blue jeans and daffodil wellies.   Her head was down, invisible at first, like she was treading carefully, unfamiliar with her route.  My hermitting instincts had me think of climbing to my right and concealing myself in the long beachgrass, but a writer's curiosity won out, and I kept to the trail.  

She briefly vanished from sight as we both stepped down into dips in the path, so that when she first saw me we were only a few metres apart.  She stopped, and I had a chance to see her close up.  About thirty five I thought.  From beneath the hood strands of brown hair wisped in the breeze, giving her face an uncertain and constantly shifting shape.  Pale white skin, a hint of pink in her cheeks, no makeup I could see, the nose straight and narrow above a wide tight mouth.  Her indeterminate eyes seemed to see and not see me at the same time.  Not a memorable face.  But the look she gave me - that was memorable.  That was unforgettable.  A desolate, uninhabited look.  No trace of fear, no sense of acknowledgement, I felt like a tree to be circumnavigated.  

I said Hi, the limit of my social skills at the time, but she just put her head back down and walked past me, shoulders scrunched up to make herself as narrow as possible, to avoid any possibility of contact.  For a few moments I watched her luminous back, and then the dunes took her from me.  I returned to my isolated home, turning over the incident in my mind and wondering where she might fit into my plot.

The following evening I was going over my morning's work when I heard a car approach, doors slam shut, boots on the gravel outside, and the inevitable knock on my door.  Even with all that time to prepare it still felt like a startling intrusion on my existence.  I opened up to find Little and Large, two women police officers.  Little spoke.

"Good evening sir, sorry to bother you, but we're making some enquiries about a woman who's gone missing and just wanted to ask you a few questions.  Mind if we come in for a minute?"

I let them in, saw them take in the state of the place.

"I'm a writer.  Keeping myself to myself while I get on with my work, so I don't see much."

"No problem sir, we won't take up much of your time."  She looked at her pal and went on.  "Can you tell me your name please, and where you're from?"

"Donald Ramsay, I'm up from Edinburgh, looking for a bit of isolation to work in."  I wondered if the name would generate any recognition, but nothing doing.  

"We're trying to trace the movements of a woman who we've got reason to be concerned about.  Is that your coat sir?"  She pointed at my brown stockman's coat, hanging on the back of the door, ready for the morn.  

"Well, yes, of course.  You need something long and dry around here."

"Indeed sir.  Were you out wearing it yesterday?"

"Yes, I go along towards the abbey every afternoon."

"And did you see anyone while you were out?"  She sounded slightly impatient now.

"Yes, a woman.  First person I've seen in the three weeks I've been going that way."  I paused, but their faces indicated they wanted more.  "Woman, mid thirties I'd guess, yellow coat and wellies, blue jeans.  Looked a bit... empty."

"Empty?  That's a strange word to use sir."

"Vacant.  As if there was nobody home.  Empty.  I can't think of another way to put it."

"Where was this sir, and can you recall the time?"

"Down on the path through the dunes."  I waved my arm vaguely in the relevant direction. "Must have been about four by then, I was nearly home."

"And did she say anything?"

"No.  Not a word.  I think I said Hi, you know, just trying to be sort of neighbourly, but I'm not sure she even heard.  Ignored me and went on with her walk.  Because of the dunes I wasn't able to see her for long."

"And did you go out that way again today?"

"Yes, same route, pretty much the same time.  It's become my routine."

"Didn't see anything different today?"

"There was a beam of light from the clouds that lit up the wee island about a mile out from the cliffs, and the abbey seemed even more foreboding than usual, and..."  I trailed off, their faces clearly indicating this wasn't the sort of 'different' they were interested in.  "But no, not really, nothing that would help you."

"Did you go into the abbey today?"

"No, not this time, like I said it was really dark and gloomy, so I went round the outside and then headed back.  Why d'you ask?"

"A note was found there, tucked into a gap in the stone bowl near the middle.  It mentioned a man in a brown drover's coat.  We believe it was written by the woman we're looking for."

"Are you able to tell me what it said?"

"Just thanks for saying hello to her, and that she wished she'd talked to you.  You looked different to the others."

"Others?"

"We're not yet clear what she meant by that.  Is there anything else you can tell us about the incident?"

"Em, not really, I think that's it.  I saw her walk towards me, although I got the feeling she hadn't seen me.  We both stopped when we got close and she looked at me, but still as if she hadn't really seen me.  I said something and she put her head down and went on, seemed careful not to come near me.  Then she was gone and that was it."

"OK sir, thanks for your help, that's been really useful."  She didn't sound convincing.  "We'll be off now.  Please ring this number if you can think of anything else that might be of assistance."  She handed me a card.  PC Jean Muirhouse.

"Thank you PC Muirhouse."

She nodded.  Large nodded.  And they let themselves out.  I watched them get into their car and drive away.  Nobody waved.

A week later I walked into the village to top up my supplies.  Shuffled round McKenzie's General Store piling up my needs and wants for another three or four weeks, and hauled it up to the counter.  Mr McKenzie (I assumed) had greeted me when I came in, but saved the interrogation until he had me captive, waiting on his adding up.

"You'll be the man in Dougie Rae's cottage then?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"The man Jeannie was wanting to talk to?"  I raised my eyebrows.  "PC Muirhouse you'd be knowing her as.  She was wondering who had the coat" he said, nodding at my garment.  

"Yes, she came to see me.  I couldn't really help her much."

"Had you not seen our Mary then?"  

"The woman in the yellow raincoat?"

"That would be the one.  Mary McCallum."

"Only very briefly.  We didn't talk."

"No, well, she wasn't saying that much lately, and I suppose she won't be again.  It's a sad way to go though."

"Go?  She's not coming back?"  If he was going to quiz me I might as well see if there was a story in it.

"You'd not heard?"  I shook my head.  "She was found washed up on the shore on Saturday, along at Redcrags Bay."  It was Thursday now, I'd seen her on a Wednesday, so she was found three days after I'd seen her.  What had happened to her, what had she done?  And could I...?

"Where's Redcrags?"

"A couple of miles along from the old abbey.  Not easy to get to.  She was spotted by Jamie from the boat.  You don't see many seals wearing yellow, do you?"  I hadn't been along that far, but I knew I would be tomorrow.  

"She was a local here?"  

He paused and looked around before replying.

"Yes, I suppose.  I suppose she was.  Sort of.  But not really one of us, if you know what I mean."

"Not really.  I mean, I'm not one of you either, so I'm not sure what you're getting at."

Another pause, another look towards the door to the back of the shop.  Clearly considering how much to give away to an outsider.

"She'd been born here right enough.  Grew up a bit wild, went as soon as she could, over to Aberdeen we think."  

I gave him an encouraging look and he started up again.

"Poor Greta."  Another pause.  "Her mother, Greta McCallum.  Fine woman, did her best, widow.  Didn't deserve a bairn like Mary.  Fair broke her heart, eh?.  Died a couple of years back.  We all miss her.  All of us."

He drew to a close again, but I wasn't going to stop there.

"So Mary came back to her?"

He looked surprised.

"To her?  No, she'd never have done that.  Not Mary.  Poor Greta."

It was going to be a slow process.

"So Mary didn't get to see her mum before she died?"

"See her?"  A sudden look of anger flashed across his face.  "See her?  No, she wouldn't bloody see her.  Didn't come near until the poor woman was buried.  Not even home for the funeral.  But she was quick enough to take up Greta's place, free home for her.  Just moved in without a word to anyone.  Besom."

"She wasn't well liked here then?"

"Well liked?  She wasn't even badly liked.  Ignoring our Greta all those years, doing whatever she was doing.  There was a lot of anger in the village, can you understand that Mr...?"

"Ramsay."

"Mr Ramsay.  Can you understand that?  Ignoring her mother all those years, never a word after she left, then moving back in like that as if she owned the place.  Which she did it seems, but all the same.  Nobody had any time for her.  I wasn't going to serve her, that's for sure.  Got all her stuff delivered from somewhere and I don't miss the money."  His tone was fierce.  He stopped and recomposed his expression as he remembered he was speaking about a dead woman.  "I'll just add this lot up for you."

I paid my money over, asked if he could call me a taxi back to the cottage with my load of supplies.  He turned to the storeroom door and called out.

"Rab!  Man here wanting a taxi up to Dougie's place."  A small red haired man emerged, grabbed a load of my stuff from the counter, gave me a quick cock of the head to follow, and silently went out through the back room.  I lifted, carried and followed.  A Nissan awaited.  My stuff went in the boot, I went in the back seat and avoided looking at his mirror.  One questioning session was enough, and I guessed he'd been listening anyway.  

When we got to the cottage he finally spoke.  "I'll give you a hand in with this lot."  And he did.  As he was leaving he turned and looked at me, looked at the messy room, looked back at me.  "Did you speak to her?"  I knew exactly who he meant.

"Not really.  Said Hi, but she ignored me."

"Aye.  She would.  But at least you said more than the rest of us."  And he walked back to his car before I could think of a reply.  Maybe it was best that I didn't get a chance.

All I'd said was Hi.  I will never forget her face.